The Call

This week I had to make the phone call all teachers dread.  To the Department of Children and Family Services.  The supreme form of tattling.

Kelly walked at the front of the line holding a water bottle with ice in it.  The last time Kelly was carrying a water bottle with ice in it, she’d brought it to protect herself from Jesus, a boy in another 2nd grade class who was calling her fat and stinky.  She’d also filched her mom’s glass perfume bottle to spritz herself periodically, just in case he was right.  After I found out about what was going on, I conferred with the boy, his teacher, his mother, and Kelly, and we all agreed that Jesus would leave Kelly alone and try to work for the Light Side rather than the Dark Side.

Naturally, I wondered if the reappearing water bottle meant Kelly was having Jesus issues again.  I asked her in private.  She said no.  But she wouldn’t look me in the eye.  I asked if something else was wrong; she looked like her new puppy had been sent on a one-way trip to Mars.  She said, “It’s because my mom hit me with the belt because I wasn’t doing what I was supposed to.”

Brrrrrr.

Those words send fear into a teacher’s heart.  Sometimes it’s fear for the child, and sometimes it’s fear for the family, and sometimes it’s fear for ourselves.  I’ve had to file four reports with DCFS over the last seven years, and I remember every single one of them.

I’m lucky to teach at a school where children may come from difficult family situations, but at the very least one member of the family means well.  They just have parenting styles that may not conform to what is acceptable in Los Angeles, California in 2008.  I have friends who have taught in schools where parenting styles include shooting your wife in front of the children or smoking crack at the kitchen table. The closest I’ve come to that is a dad who punched the mom in their car and broke her nose, splattering blood all over the children.  The dad went to jail and then was deported, but the mom has been unabashedly heroic in her efforts to protect and care for the children.  Like I said, we almost always have one responsible party.

So I worry if I make that call–and I ALWAYS make that call–it’s the law, I can lose my license if I don’t, and better safe than sorry–that I’m creating problems for the family.  That I’m getting the child into trouble.  That I’m destroying the parent’s trust in me.

But I have to make that call.  A 7 year-old child is generally powerless.  The powerless need protection.

(Though last year I did have to make the call, and the investigation revealed the child was making up all the accusations about his mother hitting him.  He was mad his older brother had gotten a Nintendo DS and he didn’t. Sometimes children discover their power early.)

But you can’t take a chance.  When a child tells you someone is hitting them, you gotta press the buttons.

I gave Kelly a special feel-good assignment to hand out flyers (why do kids LOVE handing out flyers?), and made some calls to the office and the principal.  As I was gathering the attendance cards, Kelly came to me of her own accord and informed me, “It’s because my mom always does that when I don’t listen.”

‘Always.’  Kids use that word so profligately.  Just like ‘never’ and ‘nothing’.  I know my son does.  “Mom, you never let me get on the computer!” (every day).  “Mom, you always make me go to Costco!” (once a month).  “We did nothing in school today!” (yeah right).

I ‘ve talked to Kelly’s mom many times.  She loves her daughter, she works with her daughter, she’s responsive and full of smiles when I offer suggestions for her daughter.  I know those smiles, that love, is genuine.  Was it just a case of Darth Momma going too far?

No matter.  We don’t do belts in the state of California.  Even alleged ones.

I hugged Kelly.  I settled the class down to get to work.  At recess I went to make the call and fill out the paperwork.

I felt terrible.  I felt like I was betraying the mom.  I was betraying the mom.

But I had no choice.  Teachers are not allowed to call the parents to get more information.  We’re not allowed to look under the child’s clothing for telltale marks or bruises.  We are not allowed to investigate in any way, shape, or form.

We are just mandated to make the call.

The social workers on the other end are a mixed bunch.  I’ve had social workers yell at me for checking up on a case or promise to call me back to let me know whether I can release a child to his parent but then never call.  I’m still waiting on one of those release calls from last April.

Social Worker: You’re not allowed to release him to his father.

Me: But I’ve been doing it for a week since the incident report.  He’s picking him up in two hours.

Social Worker: I’ll check with a supervisor and call you back.

Me: Really?  For sure?

Social Worker: Definitely.

Me: One way or the other?

Social Worker: No matter what.

Last I checked, it’s November.  Still haven’t gotten that call back.

I know they’re overworked just like we are.  I know some really do care.  But it’s also a bureacracy.

Yesterday’s social worker tried to get me to investigage.  Check the child’s body.  I know even the school nurse is not allowed to do that.  I resisted.  We filed the report.  I got my all-important case number.  No case number, no further information.  It’s lost in the system.

I worried.  The child is a nervous child.  When I sent her to the Vice-Principal earlier for misbehaving, the VP told me Kelly broke down crying instantly, saying her father screamed at the family all the time.  When I offered to get her counseling earlier, her mom said she was afraid of me.  Something may be wrong.  Then again, something may not be.

Until someone investigates, we just don’t know.

Yuck.

I hope everything is okay.